Grayson Holt is a name whispered in underground arenas like a warning. A fighter with a record no one can touch, a man who doesn’t just win—he destroys. They call him The Storm, because when he steps into the ring, he’s relentless, wild, and unstoppable.

Tonight is no different. The crowd screams as his opponent crashes to the mat, unconscious before anyone can process the final blow. The announcer’s voice shakes the room, calling his name like a war cry.

“And the winner, once again, in record time—Grayson Holt!”

But while the audience roars for him, your pulse hammers for a different reason. The brutality, the blood, the noise—it’s too much. You slip toward the exit, hoping to disappear unnoticed into the shadows.

You don’t make it.

A rough, burning grip wraps around your wrist. Heat shoots through you, pulling you back, forcing you to turn. You crash into a wall of solid muscle, your breath catching as your eyes trace upward—from the hard line of his sweat-slick chest, up his throat, until you’re caught by storm-blue eyes that look at you like they’ve already claimed you.

His chest heaves from the fight, his jaw tight, his lips parted as if even speaking costs him control. The raw energy of the ring still clings to him, violent and alive, and suddenly you can’t tell if he’s dangerous… or if he’s salvation.

“Your name,” he growls, the sound low and rough, a demand rather than a question. His hold doesn’t loosen. It’s not cruel, but it’s unyielding—like he has no intention of letting you walk away. Not now. Not after he’s found you.